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A gnarl of nerves amidst a flutter of excitement, Celia donned her hat and gloves. It was half-past twelve, barely afternoon, but she wished to be finished with her interview with Rhysdale before two, when no respectable woman dared walk near St James’s Street.
She supposed she was not truly a respectable woman. Not when she spent her nights gambling in a gaming hell. But that did not mean she wished to suffer the taunts and catcalls of dandies who loitered on corners for that very purpose.
Her mother-in-law descended the staircase. ‘And where are you going?’
Celia had hoped to slip out before her mother-in-law knew she was gone. ‘I have an errand. I shall be back shortly.’
‘Do you take Younie with you?’ the older woman snapped. ‘Because I have need of her.’
Celia kept her tone mild. ‘She is at your disposal. My errand is not far. I have no need of company.’
‘Hmmph!’ her mother-in-law sniffed. ‘I expect you will not tell me the nature of this errand of yours.’
‘That is correct.’ Celia smiled.
Lady Gale continued to talk as she descended the stairs. ‘Most likely it is to pay a bill or beg for more credit from shopkeepers who ought to be glad to have our business. Needless to say you are not off to meet a man. My son always said you were frigid as well as barren.’
The barb stung.
The cruelty of this woman was rivalled only by that of her son. Ironic that Lady Gale was blind to her son’s faults, but took great enjoyment in cataloguing Celia’s.
Primary among Celia’s shortcomings, of course, was her inability to conceive a child. Neither Gale nor his mother had forgiven her for not producing sons, but neither had they ever considered how crushing this was for Celia. A baby might have made her marriage bearable.
Knowing she could never have a child hurt more than her mother-in-law would ever know, but today her mother-in-law’s abuse merely made her angry.
After all she’d sacrificed for the woman’s comfort …
Celia faced her. ‘You speak only to wound me, ma’am. It is badly done of you.’
Her mother-in-law stopped on the second stair. She flushed and avoided Celia’s eye.
Celia maintained her composure. ‘Recall, if you please, that your son left you in more precarious financial circumstances than he did me, but I have not abandoned you.’ Much as she would like to. ‘Nor have I abandoned Adele. I am doing the best I can for all of us.’
Lady Gale pursed her lips. ‘You keep us both under your thumb with your tight-fisted ways. You control us with the purse strings.’
Celia tied the ribbons on her hat. ‘Think the worst of me, if you wish, but at least have the good manners to refrain from speaking your thoughts aloud.’ She opened the door. ‘I should return in an hour or so.’
Younie had sewn a swirl of netting to the crown of Celia’s hat. When she stepped onto the pavement, Celia pulled the netting over her face so no one would recognise her if they happened to spy her entering the Masquerade Club.
The afternoon was grey and chilly and Celia walked briskly, needing to work off her anger at the woman.
Lady Gale had well known of her son’s debauchery, but still she preferred to blame all Gale’s ills on Celia. In truth, the man had countless vices, many more than mere gambling. He’d treated Celia like a brood mare and then thrust her out to pasture when she didn’t produce, all the while taunting her with his flagrant infidelities and profligate ways. As if that were not enough, he neglected his daughter.
And his mother.
Celia had known nothing of men when her aunt and uncle arranged her marriage to Gale. She’d still been reeling from her parents’ deaths and barely old enough for a come-out. Her aunt and uncle simply wished to rid themselves of her. She’d never felt comfortable with Gale, but thought she had no choice but to marry him. She never imagined how bad marriage to him would be.
The only thing he’d wanted from Celia was a son and when she could not comply, he disdained her for it. Over and over and over. Life was only tolerable for her when he went off to London or anywhere else. Celia cared nothing about what he did in those places as long as he was gone.
Little did she know he’d squandered his fortune, leaving only what he could not touch: Celia’s widow’s portion and Adele’s dowry.
She’d worn widow’s black after Gale died, but she had never mourned him. His death had set her free.
And she would free herself of his mother, as well, when Adele was settled. As long as her husband would be generous enough to take on the responsibility of the Dowager Lady Gale.
It was not until Celia turned off St James’s on to Park Place that she remembered her destination. She was indeed meeting a man. Would not Lady Gale suffer palpitations if she knew? She was meeting a man who offered her the best chance of escaping life with her mother-in-law. A man who had almost kissed her.
The gaming hell was only a few short streets away from her rooms. In daylight it looked like any other residence.
But it was an entirely different world.
As she reached for the knocker, her hand shook.
For the first time he would see her face. Was she ready for that?
She sounded the knocker and the door opened almost immediately. The burly man who attended the door at night stood in the doorway.
Celia made herself smile. ‘Good afternoon. I have an appointment with Mr Rhysdale.’
The taciturn man nodded and stepped aside for her to enter. He lifted a finger. A signal for her to wait, she supposed. He trudged up the stairs.
Celia took a breath and glanced around to try to calm her nerves.
At night this hall looked somewhat exotic with its deep green walls and chairs and gilded tables. At night the light from a branch of candles made the gold gilt glitter and a scent of brandy and men filled the air. To her right was a drawing room, its door ajar. To anyone peeking in a window this house would appear as respectable as any Mayfair town house.
The doorman descended the dark mahogany stairs and nodded again. Celia assumed that meant he’d announced her to Mr Rhysdale. He then disappeared into the recesses of rooms behind the hall.
A moment later Rhysdale appeared on the stairs. ‘Madam?’
She turned towards him and lifted the netting from her face, suddenly fearful he would not approve of her true appearance.
He paused, ever so slightly, but his expression gave away nothing of his thoughts.
He descended to the hall. ‘Come. We will talk upstairs.’
Dismayed by his unreadable reaction, Celia followed him to the second floor where sounds of men hammering nails and sawing wood reached her ears.
‘Forgive the noise,’ he said. ‘I’m having this floor remodelled into rooms for my use.’ He lifted the latch of a door to her right. ‘We can talk in here.’
They entered a small drawing room. Its furnishings appeared fashionable, as well as comfortable. They were stylishly arranged.
He gestured for her to sit on a deep red sofa. He sat on an adjacent chair. ‘I’ve ordered tea.’
She might have been calling upon one of her mother-in-law’s society friends. Escorted into a pleasant drawing room. Served tea. The conventions might be identical, but this was no typical morning call.
In daylight Rhysdale was even more imposing. His dress and grooming were as impeccable as the most well-attired lord, even though he managed to wear the pieces as casually as if he’d just walked in from a morning ride. His eyes, dark as midnight in the game room, were a spellbinding mix of umber and amber when illuminated by the sun from the windows.
His gaze seemed to take in her total appearance, but his expression remained impassive. Did she disappoint? She was too tall to be fashionable. Her figure was unremarkable. Her neck was too long; her face too thin; her lips too full; her hair too plain a brown—she could almost hear her husband’s voice listing her faults.
But what did Rhysdale think?
And why was it she cared so much for his approval?
He blinked, then averted his compelling eyes. ‘I assume you have not changed your mind about my proposition?’ His smooth voice made her quiver inside.
She swallowed. ‘I would not have kept the appointment otherwise.’
A smile grew across his face. ‘Then, perhaps an introduction is in order?’
She was prepared for this, at least. He would be a fool to hire her without knowing her name.
And he was no fool.
She’d already decided to give him her true name. Her maiden name.
She extended her gloved hand. ‘I am Celia Allen, sir.’
It pleased her to be Celia Allen again. The surname was common enough and her father minor enough that no one would connect the name to Lord Gale’s widow.
He took her hand, but held it rather than shake it. ‘Miss Allen or Mrs Allen?’
She pulled her hand away. ‘Miss Allen.’
Rhys felt the loss of her hand as if something valuable had slipped through his fingers. With this first glimpse of her face, he wanted her more than ever.
She reminded him of a deer with her long regal neck and alert-but-wary eyes that were the colour of moss at twilight. She seemed wrong for the city. She was meant for the country, for brisk walks in fresh country air. The bloom in her cheeks, the hue of wild raspberry of her lips looked out of place in London.
But he was becoming distracted.
And much too poetic.
He could almost hear Xavier’s voice in his head, admonishing him to keep his focus on the gaming house. He would tell his friend later about employing her—not of almost kissing her—both had been too impulsive to meet the approval of his friend.
Not that Rhys cared if his zealously protective friend approved of his employing Miss Allen. Or of wanting her in his bed.
He fixed his gaze on her again. To call her Miss Allen seemed wrong to him. He had no wish to be so formal with her.
‘Will you object if I address you as Celia?’ he asked. ‘You may call me Rhys.’
She coloured.
Her discomfort made him wonder. A woman of the theatre would expect the presumption of intimacy of using given names.
She paused before answering. ‘If you wish it.’ She met his eyes. ‘Not in the gaming house, though.’
Clever of her. ‘Of course not. You are exactly right. No one must know you are in my employ. They will suspect us of manipulation.’
‘Manipulation?’ Her lovely brows knit in anxiety.
‘I hire you because your presence in the gaming house encourages patrons—men—to gamble. You are not expected to do anything different from what you were doing before.’
She nodded.
He leaned closer and put his hand on her wrist. ‘That is not my only reason for hiring you, however—’
A knock at the door interrupted. She slipped her hand away and Rhys straightened in his chair.
MacEvoy entered with the tea tray, managing to give her an un-servant-like look-over. Undoubtedly Rhys would hear Mac’s assessment of the lady later.
‘Shall I pour?’ She looked rattled. ‘How do you take your tea?’
‘No milk, no sugar.’ He’d accustomed himself to drinking tea that way from times when he could not afford milk and sugar. It pleased him that he did not need those inconsequential trappings of wealth.
He gestured to MacEvoy to leave.
MacEvoy closed the door behind him and Celia handed Rhys his cup of tea.
He lifted the cup and took a sip.
Perhaps it was for the best that Mac had interrupted him. His desire for her was making him move too quickly. When he got close, he sensed her alarm, another clue that his theory about her identity might be wrong.
He changed the subject. ‘I should explain something else about your employment here.’
She gave him her attention.
‘Some time ago, before I owned this gaming house, a woman came here in disguise to play cards. It is where I got the idea to set up the place as a masquerade.’ He waved that tangent away. ‘But no matter. About this woman. She created a stir. Men were taking wagers on who would be the first to unmask her.’ He paused. ‘And who would be first to seduce her. Men came and gambled merely for the chance to win the wager.’
She paled. ‘You wish me to offer myself as some sort of prize?’
He shook his head. ‘No. No, indeed. I am merely warning you. Some men who come to gamble may ask more of you than merely to partner them in a game of whist.’
Her eyes narrowed in calculation. ‘Like that man who so distressed you last night?’
Westleigh, she meant.
His voice hardened. ‘Yes. Men like him.’ He looked directly into her eyes. ‘I will be near if any men ill treat you. Do not hesitate to alert me or Xavier. We will protect you.’
She put her hand on her heart and glanced away.
He took another sip of tea. ‘You are a good card player. And that is all that is required of you. None the less, your feminine allure will attract admirers.’
‘Feminine allure?’ She looked surprised.
How puzzling. Did she not know she was alluring?
‘You are a beguiling mystery. A lovely young woman who knows how to play cards. You will—you do—attract men. Men will want to partner you, play against you, sit next to you.’ He gave her another direct look. ‘But they must not cross the line of proper behaviour. If they do, you must let me know.’
She became absorbed in stirring her tea. Finally she answered. ‘If such a thing should happen, I will let you know.’
